


Point of No Return

by Nightshade_and_Moonbeams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lemon, Post Army of the Dead attack, Sandor is as delightfully crude as always, The Little Bird - Freeform, mentions of ramsey, sansan, the hound, what should have happened, wolf girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightshade_and_Moonbeams/pseuds/Nightshade_and_Moonbeams
Summary: The Night King has been defeated at Winterfell and the celebration is ongoing. Sansa seeks out a familiar, burned face amidst the crowd. Sandor is content to drink until he forgets her. But, Sansa will not give up easily, and a wolf always gets what it wants. Split between Sansa and Sandor's relationship in the books and in the show. Rated for explicit sexual content.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 141





	Point of No Return

Sansa Stark shifted from one foot to the other. She had no tolerance for formalities anymore, and was loathe to be stuck in the middle of a celebration, let alone be stuck with the blonde bitch she was expected to play nice with. She glared at Jon for bringing the Dragon Queen to the North, mentally slapping him around a few times before grabbing a cup of wine and bolting from the table. The great hall of Winterfell felt stifling. She moved quickly, her boots clicking on the stone. She escaped to the servants dining space and backed slowly into a corner near the fireplace. She sipped her wine, taking in the lack of formality as a breath of air escaped her lungs. She watched the Wildlings and the man with them--one she’d eyed since she was a girl. He scowled and snarled as usual, lashing out like a wounded animal. Next to him, a ginger haired Wildling sobbed and threw his arm around the scarred man. 

“Don’t touch me,” she heard The Hound snap. He shoved the Wildling from him, and downed a cup of wine. Sansa had not been noticed--yet. 

Despite their win against the Army of the Dead, despite the loss of her friends, despite everything else, Sansa was irritated that she had not had a moment to interact with Sandor Clegane. No, he seemed to purposely allude her each time she sought him out. Not tonight. No, she would force his attention if necessary, though she highly doubted he would prove a challenge. She remembered his frightening (yet gentle) embrace and the lecherous stares he directed at her years ago. Back then, she was an innocent girl. Now, though, she was far from the Maiden. Something feral had taken root and bloomed within her the night she murdered her vile husband. Using his dogs against him was the only substitute for The Hound’s massive sword and terrifying wrath. She wished he had rescued her, or that she had not been such a frightened git when he propositioned to take her north the night the Blackwater burned. 

Of course he would have kept you safe. He loved you. And you were too stupid to realize he was your non-knight in black, bloodied armor. 

Their last interaction flooded her mind. Sandor had fled the burning battlegrounds and made his way (drunken, no doubt) to her room in the Red Keep. She bolted to her quarters when the castle had been breached. Most of the night was foggy and her wine addled mind could not remember what was truth and what manifestations her mind had invented. He pinned her against the bed, demanding a song with his dagger at her throat. Now, Sansa saw the double meaning of his demands--perhaps he could have made her “sing.” And of course--the dagger--she remembered feeling something decidedly large and hard against her hip as he hovered above her. She knew now what Sandor would have impaled her on if given the chance and it certainly wasn’t cold steel. Her face grew flushed and heat flooded her body as her thoughts turned sensual. When he was denied her body he fled the castle but not before (possibly?) pressing his lips against hers in a wild kiss. She touched her lips at the memory. Perhaps she could still have that power over him? Would he react the same if he cornered her this time? Or would she corner him, backing the beast against the door and taking what she had desired for nearly seven years. Could she turn the tables on him and give him a taste of his own sweet poison? Tonight she would find out. 

A pair of busty servants made their way to the table, plopping down next to Sandor and the Wildling man. Sansa could barely make out what they were saying, but she had a good idea of their motives. One tried (unsuccessfully) throwing herself at The Hound. Bad idea, thought Sansa with a chuckle. The loud, angry snarl he emitted before slamming another cup of wine frightened the one Sansa glared at. She caught the woman’s eye as she passed, a thin smile on the Wolf’s lips. 

Dumb bitch, he’s mine. He’s always been mine. And I don’t share. 

Sansa let out a deep breath and took her chance. She approached Sandor slowly, as one would with a vicious dog. She sat across from him, hands braced on the table for stability and courage. Sandor did not look up, so she spoke. 

“She could have made you happy for a little while,” she murmured, staring at him. He finally glanced up, dark eyes meeting hers. His equally dark hair covered the scar that stretched the length of the right side of his face. Sansa desperately wanted to touch him, but kept her face stony and her hands to herself--for the moment. 

“Only one thing will make me happy,” he snapped, though his eyes held the lie. 

Fine, I’ll bite, thought Sansa. 

“And what is that?” Her eyes never left his face, though he broke eye contact and concentrated on his cup of wine. She noted he was far from drunk this time. The wine was buzzing in her veins, however, and the air hung thick in the room.

“That’s my fucking business,” he growled. He avoided her gaze. 

Sansa was not dissuaded, though. She was a persistent woman. Her eyes roamed over his face, dropping momentarily to scan his broad chest and heavily muscled arms. He was much older than her, but she knew his body was still hard muscle and sinew and it excited her to think of finally getting bedded by a real man, not a psychotic rapist. She hoped to later explore his body fully without the damnable leather armor concealing it. Though some spoke of The Hound as a monster, she saw him as a beast--one that could be gentle when needed or ruthless when provoked. She wouldn’t mind seeing either side again. Right now, though, he seemed frightened and was lashing out any way he verbally could to avoid the Stark woman. 

A cornered, feral animal. 

When she didn’t budge, he glanced up, frowning. Her eyes locked with his again. She saw something there--a spark of the lust she once saw on a regular basis. That was good. 

“Used to be you couldn’t look at me,” he replied through gritted teeth. 

Sansa was wearing him down. She saw his resolve slowly disintegrate. She smirked. “That was a long time ago. I’ve seen much worse than you since then.”

Sandor frowned again, his voice low and gravelly. “Yes, I heard. I heard you were broken in-- heard you were broken in rough.” 

For a moment, Sansa saw something none other had seen. He empathized with her. She knew he would never have hurt her--not when she bled and he found her first, not when Joffrey demanded her beatings and he refused, not even when he had come to her in the light of wildfire, his darkest side coming out to play for a bit. No, even if he had taken her that night, she knew he would have given her everything she desired now. She would have given him the song he pleaded for, and he would have shown her bliss, she had no doubt.

“And he got what he deserved, I gave it to him.”

The Hound’s eyes sparkled, seemingly intrigued by her murderous side. “How?”

A dark smile spread across her face. “Hounds.” 

Sandor raised his eyebrow, chuckling darkly. “You’ve changed, Little Bird...none of it would have happened, you know? If you’d have come with me. Not Littlefinger, not Ramsey, none of it. I would have kept you safe.” 

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. She took a breath. It was now or never. She reached out and covered his rough, calloused hand with her soft one. She squeezed her long fingers around his. He looked startled. “Without Littlefinger and Ramsey and the rest, I would have remained a Little Bird forever. You once told me, a dog will only be struck so many times before it bites. A wolf is no different.”

The Hound let out a breath. His eyes darkened, considering his next words carefully. “It seems we are not so different, Sansa.”

Sansa shuddered as her name rolled off his tongue. She closed her eyes when Sandor’s hand came up to brush against her cheek. She leaned into the touch, deciding to provoke him just a bit. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “I’ve given you my truth. You told me a long time ago that a hound will die for you, but never lie to you. I know you’re lying about only one thing making you happy. I know there is something you want beyond your brother’s death. Yes, I know that is what you spoke of. But, tell me truthfully, Sandor, is there nothing else that can bring you happiness? Nothing I can give you? You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

She knew she was playing a dangerous game now. His eyes went black and the look he’d given her one thousand times in King’s Landing suddenly appeared. A low growl escaped his throat, his fingers skimming over her lips. She made a point to puff out her lips and kiss his thumb as it brushed her mouth. He seemed to be fighting for restraint and losing miserably. Not that she had any doubt of what he wanted, and if she still knew him, what he would take with a bit of persuasion. She set her resolve, onlookers be damned. She leaned across the table and gently brushed the burned side of his face with her fingertips. He shivered under her touch. “You want me to fuck you, is that it? You are a dangerous woman, Sansa Stark, to offer me what I’ve desired so long.” 

“If there is anything I can do to give you happiness, I won’t hesitate. I will be in my quarters, should you need me, Sandor,” she replied, her voice heavy with lust. 

Sansa’s eyes never left his, even as she backed away and stood, leaving a stunned and chaotic man to weigh his options. Would he follow her as she hoped? Only time would tell. Her boots echoed once more as she made her way to her room, dodging the drunken guests and her likely enemies. When she hit the empty halls, she broke into a sprint. She stopped, though, when she heard footfalls much heavier than hers on her trail. She turned briefly and caught The Hound headed toward her, a wild gleam in his eyes. She grinned and took off once more. Three of her steps equaled one of his, despite her own tall stature. She briefly remembered how it felt to be pursued by him, and wondered when she came to desire him as passionately she did. 

No, this isn’t merely desire. I love him. I have since he wiped the blood from my lip when Meryn Trant struck me. I was just too naïve to understand it.

Without warning, she felt a strong arm around her waist, pulling her back. She collided with his chest and twisted in his grip. Her eyes met his. “I knew you’d come, Sandor. I know you still want me. I know you--still--love me. And know this, I return all of those feelings and more. You’ve haunted my dreams for far too long.” 

Sandor lowered his head, his voice gruff in her ear. “If we do this, it's game over, Sansa. I won’t let some high born cunt take you away. I won’t let your fucking brother or that Dragon bitch sell you away for political reasons. You will be Lady Clegane, understood? Can you live with that? Can you live with being mine? I am not an easy man to live with, Sansa. I’m vengeful, I have a fucking awful temper, I--” 

Sansa cut him off with a finger to his lips. “I’ve always been yours. My desires have always belonged to you. You saved me so many times--you and only you stood up for me. And--you cloaked me twice already. Once in the Red Keep when Joffrey had me beat, and once when you--left. I still have that cloak. So, in terms of marriage--I am already yours. Even when I was with my dear late “husband” I tried pretending multiple times he was you. But everything he did was despicable--there was no way I could entertain that fantasy. After the Blackwater burned, I had dreams of you--bedding me. Every time I slept I saw your face, felt you press me into the mattress. Making me sing. Feeling the dagger at my throat and your--sword--at my hip. More than once I woke up sobbing that you weren’t next to me.”

The Hound’s eyes were chaos and desire and passion unspent. She’d just confessed everything to Sandor Clegane, and by the end of the night she would belong to him and him alone. There was no going back now, they had passed the point of no return. She grabbed his hand, leading him through the twisting hallways to her bedroom. Once they were near, he grabbed her and pinned her against the wall just once, his eyes searching hers one final time. “You’re sure?”

Sansa’s eyelashes fluttered as his heat surrounded her. “More than I’ve been about anything, ever. But Sandor, you will not leave me after this night. You will stay with me. You will protect me, yes, but more importantly, you will protect yourself. If you go South with the troops to kill your brother, I will send Arya with you.”

“Oh really, will you now?”

The snarky female voice startled both of them. Arya leaned against the far side of the wall, watching The Hound and her sister.

“Arya! Whatever you’re thinking--” Sansa began.

“It’s exactly what it looks like, Wolf girl,” replied Sandor, smirking. Sansa knew he was poking the bear, getting her hackles up--wasn’t he? Why wasn’t Arya angry? 

“Well, if that’s the case, carry on. I don’t want to intrude,” she snorted. She waggled an eyebrow at The Hound and he shrugged. 

Sansa felt her face grow hot as she stepped into the threshold of her chambers. Apparently Arya wasn’t going to kill both of them, which was a relief. In fact, the suggestive look she gave them was unexpected. Perhaps she knew The Hound wasn’t a monster, too. After all, he saved both of them multiple times. That had to be it. 

Arya grabbed Sandor’s arm before he followed Sansa through the door. “Planning on fucking her bloody, Clegane? Know this, if you hurt her, I won’t hesitate to slit your throat. She’s had enough pain for ten lifetimes.”

Sandor nodded. “I know. If I hurt her, you have my permission to turn me into a fucking gelding before mounting my head on a spike. I promise you, I--love--your sister.”

Arya nodded in return. “I know. And she loves you. Be good to her. I know you plan to bed--and wed her. You have my support fully. If Jon or the Dragon bitch have any complaints, they can deal with me personally. I don’t think either of them want that. They know what I did to Littlefinger and that old fucker Frey. Not that I’m not fully convinced you could take care of them yourself, but I’m still faster than you, Clegane, and dragonfire doesn’t frighten me. Just remember, hurt her and I’ll bury you where nobody will ever look. Oh, and as for what Sansa said--I’d be more than happy to help you end your brother. I have business with Cersei myself.” 

Arya grinned evilly and took off down the hall, searching for The Lord of Storm’s End. 

Sansa’s arm shot out of the door and yanked Sandor into her room, slamming the heavy door behind them. She was tired of waiting, she had nearly seven years of desire to release. Sandor grinned, his restraint taut but within his control once more. “Well, well, this looks familiar.” 

She slipped the bolts over, locking them inside. Here she was, with her feral beast, pinned once more against the door. It brought back memories of being in his grip while out wandering the castle after dark. He caught her and asked her to sing that time, too. She wondered how long he entertained the idea of her “songs.” 

“Are you going to demand I sing this time, Sandor?” she whispered, pressing her body against his. 

Sandor growled low, grabbing her bottom, pushing her up against the door so her black skirts hiked up improperly high, his hands squeezing suggestively. She moaned much louder than anticipated when her body collided fully with his, clothed or not. He hadn’t even kissed her yet but that mattered not. She was enjoying the feel of his hard muscles under her fingers--and between her thighs. 

His voice was strained when he spoke. “It sounds like you’re already singing for me. Such a pretty song,” he remarked darkly before covering her mouth with his. 

Sansa’s lips slid along his, gently at first but the urgency was building. He nibbled and bit her bottom lip lightly, making her gasp. Soon, his tongue was begging entry into her mouth and she readily complied. His tongue stroked hers before he pulled back and lifted her just bit, pressing his manhood against her covered entrance. She threw her head back and moved her hips against his, gripping his shoulders tightly as something akin to a snarl escaped his mouth. 

There he is. My ferocious Hound. 

Sandor captured her mouth again when he released her, sliding her slowly to her feet. Sansa threw her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He gripped a fistful of her fiery red hair, tipping her head back to access her throat. Her nails bit into his forearms when he sucked at her pulse point. She pushed him back, her trembling fingers attempting to unlace the front of her dress. He watched her for a few moments before growing impatient. She shivered when he knelt and pulled the very same dagger he’d threatened her with seven years ago from his boot. He grinned viciously, slicing the laces of her bodice. The heavy, dark material was pulled from her bust and dropped in a heap. Her woolen skirts met the same fate soon after. She was left in only her shift. No matter, her skin was on fire and her belly was doing flips. 

“You’re overdressed,” she murmured, tugging on his dark tunic. 

“So I am,” he replied, placing the dagger in her hand. He raised his good eyebrow. “Go on, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

Sansa mirrored his wicked smile as she slowly drug the dagger under his throat and down his neck, slicing the straps of his tunic. It wasn’t often power was freely handed to her, and never had she been in control of any situation like this before. No, the still hidden scars on her body were proof she’d never had any say in what happened to her in the bedroom. Sandor was quickly changing that. He shrugged off the tunic and stood straight, watching Sansa’s eyes roam his battle scarred skin. 

Sansa dropped the dagger. She was having trouble breathing suddenly, openly gawking at The Hound. Absently, her fingertips grazed the white bulges of scar tissue on his torso. He was much darker than her, she noted, watching his tan skin twitch under her fingers. Her gaze suddenly dropped lower and she swallowed hard. Despite still being covered, there was no mistaking it--he was far more endowed than any man she had ever known. The whispers of Cersei’s handmaidens were not just rumor, it seemed. 

Sandor watched her gaze drop and chuckled when Sansa’s eyes went wide. “See something you want, my lady?”

“You’re--uh--very--um--are you even going to fit?” she blurted. Ramsey had literally been half his size and hurt like hell whenever he entered her. Of course the fact that she was repulsed by her late husband’s every action didn’t help. He would leave horrible bruises and strike her (sometimes doing much worse) if she displeased him in any manner, which was merely being alive she concluded one night. Sansa could feel old fears welling up, making her hesitate. 

Sandor noticed. It pained him to see fear in her blue eyes. He took her hand in his, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “I will fit, but you’ll have to be more ready than you are now. Like you said earlier, I won’t hurt you. I will give you the pleasure you deserve.” 

With that, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the oversized bed. Sansa buried her face in his chest, nuzzling his neck while drawing circles on his muscles. Nobody had ever shown her such kindness and attention. She’d never known a man to be patient with her before and certainly didn’t expect it from Sandor Clegane. 

Always my dangerous hero, even if he refuses the title. 

Sandor set her on the bed, covering her body with his. He pressed his forehead to hers. The scars on his face reminded her he, too, knew pain at the hands of someone who never should have harmed him. Her long finger traced the outline of his lips, her eyes drawn to his. Though the wild lust still lurked behind them, he was careful not to scare her. She continued to trace the contours of his face, burns and all. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. She drew her fingers through his hair and he dipped his head to kiss her again. This kiss was different, somehow, than their previous ones. This one was preparing her for a greater intrusion in a different part of her body. He stroked her tongue with his while his fingers ran up her thigh and under her shift, teasing her gently. She moaned into his mouth, her eyes shutting in bliss when his fingers brushed over her still concealed center. 

Sandor sat back on his heels, pulling Sansa up against him. He rid her of the shift and she breathed heavily. Her legs were open on either side of him, a silent invitation. He played with the strings on either side of her smallclothes. With a snap, they, too, fell away. Sansa’s breathing nearly stopped as he stared at her. She felt her heart hammering in her chest and slammed her eyes shut. Heat rose to her face until she felt his rough hands sweeping gently over her now visible scars. The deepest were across her abdomen and upper thighs, though the scars stretched around her sides and back as well. She watched his expression change. 

“That cocksucker Ramsey do this to you?” he growled, eyes flashing with rage. 

“Some of them, yes. Some were gifts from Joffrey. I’m certain you remember those. And this particular one, is from you,” she replied with a smirk, pointing to a well healed scar on her outer thigh, just above her knee. 

Sandor frowned. “Sansa, I--”

Sansa pushed a finger to his lips again. “You were drunk and took a spill. Your greave had a small chink out of it and it hit my leg when I tried to help you up. Imagine how I had to explain that to Cersei. She questioned me extensively as to why I had been with you when you were, did she say--shitfaced?”

Sansa cackled and Sandor snorted. The tension broke and he forgot his anger with all the men who had harmed her, save for himself. “Why were you with me, Sansa?”

She grinned up at him. “I was contemplating getting you in this exact predicament,” she teased, running her fingers down his neck. “Actually, I didn’t want you getting hurt. You--got mouthy with Meryn Trant and beat him nearly to death. I’m surprised you don’t remember that. You--went wild. I’ve never seen such rage. All on my account. You were defending what honor I had.”

Sandor looked contemplative. That would explain the second broken wrist and bloodied lip he’d woken up with during his time in King’s Landing. His eyes darkened again and he seemed to be entertaining thoughts of a naughty nature. 

Sansa watched him, her breath hitching in her throat when he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the scar he created. He slowly moved up her thigh, pressing kisses and soft bites over each mar on her pale skin. She trembled against him, heat flooding her core. His eyes were dangerous when they met hers once more. 

“Tell me, your bastard husband make you suck his dick?” he growled. Sansa blushed and nodded. The thought made bile rise in her throat. Sandor moved his hand to her breast, teasing the tip with his fingers while his other hand ran up her thigh. 

“Ever return any of the favors you gave him?” he watched as her face contorted with passion despite his evil questioning. Sansa blushed deeper and shook her head no, pressing her breast into his palm. Sandor continued his sweet assault on her other breast, bringing his head down to nip and suck at the tight bud before looming over her once more. 

“Fucking thought not,” he replied before locking eyes with her and burying his face between her legs. A sharp shriek tore from her throat and she collapsed back against the pillows when his tongue flicked against her. The sounds tearing from her lips--the breathy moans and gasps, whimpers of “please,” a few shrieks into the pillow--were music to his ears. He vowed long ago she would sing for him, and it was sweeter than anything he could have imagined.

Sansa was going to die, she knew it. Sandor’s mouth was laying siege to her body and he was as sure of himself between her thighs as he was on the battlefield. She moaned, gripping his hair, her hips moving of their own accord. She’d never felt anything even remotely close to the sensations he was bringing about in her. From her perspective, she saw him grin wickedly before sucking on the bud hidden deep between her legs. She gasped, pushing her lower body against his mouth. A strange feeling was building in her lower abdomen, spreading out and causing her entire body to tingle. She continued to thrust her hips against him, anything to increase the pressure. She didn’t know what this feeling was, but she knew pressure was the key. As if he could read her thoughts, his fingers pressed inside her, slowly at first, thrusting within her as he desperately wanted to. Her hips bucked at the sudden, welcome intrusion. She grabbed fistfuls of sheets and bedding, writhing below him as he continued to pleasure her. Her face contorted when he found a place within her she never knew existed. She was close--to what, she wasn’t sure. Was it possible she was feeling what men felt before spilling themselves? The combination of his hands and mouth soon sent her spiraling over the edge, her inner walls contracting hard around his fingers. She shook violently and a scream she thought to muffle with a pillow shot from her lungs. At this rate, she would have no voice come the dawn. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she collapsed, her entire body trembling from Sandor’s relentless attention. 

“What...was...that?!” Sansa heaved, her body still twitching. 

The Hound looked positively beastial as he stared at her. “That was you singing the sweetest song I’ve ever heard. I told you I would make you sing for me one day. And it was fucking beautiful, just like you.” 

Sansa caught her breath a few minutes later, rolling to her side to lie next to the man who minutes earlier had her thrashing wildly in his control. 

Sandor, who had closed his eyes while she recovered, opened them to study her face. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, especially now with her hair pulled from its braids, wild and unbound like the woman it belonged to. He smirked, his fingers lifting to run across her breast again. He pinched her nipple lightly before sitting up to take the pink tip in his mouth. She moaned again, her fingers flying to his hair, cradling him against her breast. Her legs fell open as he rolled her onto her back, his mouth continuing its delightful torture on her breast. She pressed her hips against his suggestively. He raised the good eyebrow once more and smirked. Sansa sighed when his fingers slid between her legs again, gauging if she was ready for a much larger intrusion. He found her whimpering and slick. He lifted himself off of her and removed his breeches. Her eyes widened again and she reached out, brushing her fingers over the hard marble of his skin. It was his turn to moan when her fingers grasped him lightly. 

“I want to touch you before you’re inside me,” she murmured. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. Her fingers played against his length, slowly, tentatively pumping up and down. He growled low at the sensations she was bringing about in him. She smirked before deciding to return the favor he’d given her. She bent her head and flicked her tongue over the head of his manhood. A strangled noise escaped him and his hips pushed up much like hers had. 

“Sansa, you don’t have to do that--” he grunted, tangling his fingers in her long hair. 

She smiled before her tongue flicked over him again. “I know, but I want to.” 

She knew she couldn’t take him very far into her mouth, he was too endowed for that. Half of him bumped the back of her throat and she felt the muscles in her throat contract slightly. She accidentally triggered a gag reflex, but the sensation made Sandor jump and gasp. Sansa raised an eyebrow before repeating the action, causing some swearing and an animalistic growl to tumble from his lips. Before she could repeat the action a third time, he pulled her up his body to straddle his waist. 

Sandor smirked at her. “Seems you know some things--very well. However, if you still want me inside you, I can't release in your mouth, much as I would like to.”

Sansa’s eyes dropped again to the large protrusion pushing against her abdomen. “What if I can’t take all of you?”

“That’s why you’re in control, Sansa. I’m not fucking you until you beg me to. You’re in charge and you’re fucking me. As long as you want. As hard as you want. Whatever you want,” he replied hoarsely. 

Sansa took a breath before she continued. Nobody had ever given her the reins, yet here she was, straddling Sandor Clegane, sliding slowly down on top of him as her body stretched to accommodate his hard flesh. She groaned as he filled her, his hands holding her hips so as not to hurt her. Slowly, inch by inch, she engulfed him, her walls stretching in ways she’d never experienced. Once she was fully impaled on his length (which surprised her) she experimentally began moving her hips. Something between a gasp and a scream flew from her lips when he thrust up as she shifted down. Sandor’s eyes were wild and he gripped her hips roughly, though not hard enough to leave bruises. A primal growl erupted from deep within his chest, causing Sansa to writhe and hiss, her hips slamming against his in ecstasy. He pushed himself up to capture her lips before tangling his hands in her hair. She teased him, pulling her mouth away after a few seconds and playfully biting at him. He gave her a wolfish grin, thrusting up hard once. Her spine arched back and she moaned very loudly. 

“Lean back like that, I can make you sing again,” he rumbled, burying his face in her neck. He nipped at her throat, one hand still tangled in her hair while his other found the bud between her legs, circling it firmly to prove his promise. 

“Sandor--please, please, oh--please--” Sansa repeated the phrase as if it were a prayer, rolling her hips into his, her eyes huge and feral. 

“You’re a Wolf, now, not a Bird. I should make you howl my name,” he growled savagely, biting lightly at the junction of her neck and shoulder. 

A thrill shot through her at his words and she shuddered hard. Her inner walls contracted violently around him and she let out a primal cry, his name tumbling from her lips over and over, her nails biting into his shoulders. She slammed her eyes shut, riding the high as it washed over her. Sandor hissed, her body squeezing him tightly. With a noise somewhere between a growl and snarl, he flipped them so she was beneath him, stilling his movements. 

“Look at me, Sansa,” came his voice, tight with emotion and passion unspent. “Do you want me to take control?”

“Yes,” she replied breathily, running her finger through his dark hair. “I trust you.”

Sandor’s eyes went black and he teased her gently to start, pulling soft moans from Sansa. Shallow thrusts were met with whines of “more” and “harder” from the once shy woman. She bent her knees, purposely driving him deeper. He smirked, hooking his arms beneath her legs and pulling them over his shoulders. Sansa gasped and arched her back and hips, twisting dark sheets as she writhed in ecstasy. He was losing control quickly, his thrusts becoming erratic, colors beginning to pop behind his eyes. Sansa was far gone. She cried out and clawed at everything as her orgasm crashed around her. Sandor gave one final push, following her over the edge with a roar. 

Sansa lay trembling for many moments, quaking in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Sandor was reluctant to slip from between her legs, brushing her sweaty hair from her face and kissing her softly.

“I love you, Little Bird. Always have.”

She cupped his cheek gently, blue eyes shining with emotion. “I love you, too, My Hound. Thank you…” she whispered.

“For fucking you? My pleasure,” he replied, grinning darkly, burying his face in her neck to plant kisses upon her pale throat.

She returned a small smile. “No, for truly loving me. Not for my title. Not for my name. Just for me. Sansa Stark. Hmm. Sansa Clegane. I like the way that sounds.”


End file.
